


Vorace

by MercuryPilgrim



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: But also could not be, Case Fic, Cause it sort of is, Gen, Geoffrey McCullum is tired and very done, Human Geoffrey McCullum, Jonathan is complicated, London Police actually being present, M/M, Murder Mystery, Or Is It?, but you can see it that way if you want, lots of bickering, more like 'weird tension that Geoffrey doesn't necessarily see as sexual', much sass, not really 'romance'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:41:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24222970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryPilgrim/pseuds/MercuryPilgrim
Summary: When a West End gentleman is torn to shreds on the docks, Geoffrey McCullum is drawn into a game of secrets that might just cost him his life. Human corruption and the seedy underbelly of London can be as dangerous as any leech, but luckily he has one of those on his side this time. Mostly.
Relationships: Geoffrey McCullum & Jonathan Reid, Geoffrey McCullum/Jonathan Reid
Comments: 43
Kudos: 70





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoffrey gets pulled in.

Geoffrey had never been on the best of terms with the police, nor the Wet Boot Boys.

A murder in the docks was possibly one of the worst things he wanted to wake up to, considering that he would have to play nice with both factions until they could catch the creature responsible.

He sighed as he arrived on the scene, his boots keeping away the dampness but not the chill of the February night. Despite his thick socks, his toes were freezing.

London was wreathed in mist and chill, and he would rather be anywhere but here.

The sky was frosted black, clouds lit by silvery moonlight like frozen dew on grass.

He pulled his coat further about himself and sighed, flicking the remains of his cigarette into the gutter as he came up on the small crowd.

Considering the hour and the location, he was surprised that even this many people had come to rubberneck.

He shouldered his way through the gawkers, listening to their hushed words and murmured theories. It was always useful to have an ear for gossip, even if most of it was inconsequential or useless.

A hand came out to stop his progress, and he shot a nasty look at the officer who had stopped him.

The man sported a large moustache and cold eyes, and Geoffrey felt himself bristle at the hard stare.

“Let him through.” Someone called, a smooth tenor cutting through the atmosphere and the muttering. “I sent for him.”

The bobby gave him one last stare, before stepping stiffly aside and swiftly closing the perimeter behind him.

It was odd to see the police at the docks, and he was curious as to why they had bothered venturing here for this incident in particular.

Geoffrey pushed on.

The body was, he had to admit, a sight.

Well, what was left of it was, anyway.

The smell of blood reached his nose and curled inside his mouth, coppery and acrid.

“McCullum.”

He cast a glance at the detective that watched him carefully, his bowler hat firmly on his head. He had been the one to let him through, and the one to summon him in the first place.

“Branagh.” He greeted, his tone carefully neutral.

The detective was a man who looked to be in his early forties, with his sandy hair shot through with grey and his eyes perpetually narrowed as though to regard all he saw with suspicion.

Detective Branagh nodded to him, stepping closer to stand next to him while he surveyed the body.

“What a mess.” Geoffrey muttered, peering at the mangled corpse. It was missing some pieces, and he could see that it was either the work of a large animal or something more supernatural. London was hardly the place to find wolves or bears, and he didn’t doubt the detective was thinking along the same lines as he was regarding other lines of thought. The police weren’t completely stupid, many of their more senior members had some understanding of the supernatural, even if it were a vague idea that some unexplainable bullshit happened sometimes and that Priwen would deal with it if it did.

Branagh didn’t react to him, but Geoffrey hadn’t expected him to.

“The barmaid heard him scream.” He said simply, gesturing with nod to where the barmaid in question, a young woman with dark hair and an expression that told him she was trying to appear unaffected and failing. “By the time she and the others ran out of the pub to find him, he was dead.”

So, the man had been able to scream, but the attack had been so fast that he was dead before people found him. The attack looked savage and sustained. Perhaps he had escaped and was hunted down again?

“Do we know who he is?” he asked eventually, not taking his eyes off the body. Male, middle aged, in good shape and wearing clothes nicer than one would usually find in the docks. Interesting.

Branagh shook his head.

“Not yet.” He said simply, “He looks like he could have come from the West End.” He observed. “What with the clothes and the cane.”

Geoffrey glanced to his right and noted the cane that lay on the cobbles. It was a fancy thing, all tipped with silver and glossed in fine wood. It looked expensive and, more importantly, distinctive.

“This doesn’t seem like a normal murder.” The detective said quietly, eyes sharp and piercing.

Geoffrey snorted, resisting the urge to light a cigarette to give his hands something to do.

“It’s a shit situation when we call murders ‘normal’.” He grunted but conceded that the detective was correct. “This looks like something else though.”

Branagh nodded. “I don’t know much about what you deal with McCullum, and I’m happy about that.” He said flatly, “But I won’t have you shutting me out of this.”

Geoffrey frowned.

“Why are you even here, anyway?” he asked, nodding to the other officers that held the line against the gawkers. “This ain’t your part of town.”

Branagh’s expression was hard.

“The whole city is my ‘part of town’, McCullum.” He reminded coolly.

Geoffrey gave him a look.

“Sure, but not this one.” He pressed. “Why are you here?”

The detective was still for several moments.

“Lord Wormsley is missing.” He said at length, and the name meant nothing to Geoffrey. “When we heard about the murder…”

“You thought it might have been him.” Geoffrey finished for him.

Of course. They were all too happy to run all over the city chasing some missing toff, but god forbid they come to the docks on any other night.

Branagh’s brows knitted together.

“Yes.” He said simply. “That was before I knew what we were dealing with. This is not my area of expertise.”

Geoffrey nodded.

“You’re right, it isn’t.” he muttered with little venom. “And you were right to send for me. This isn’t the work of a human, that’s for sure. No human could do this much damage and then flee in such a small timeframe.”

Branagh sighed, suddenly looking tired.

“I thought as much.” He admitted. “I was hoping this kind of thing was over and done with.”

Indeed, the streets were safer nowadays than they had been a few years ago, at the height of the epidemic, but the danger wasn’t completely gone.

It never would be, he thought.

London was simply too big and held too many secrets for the presence of dark creatures to be completely eradicated, no matter how much he wished it so.

They could only contain and manage the madness, lest it grow unchecked.

The vampires in the city seemed to be behaving themselves suspiciously well, he mused, considering their monstrous proclivities.

He was pretty sure he knew the reason for that, and it wasn’t because they were suddenly preaching peace and love.

He sighed, watching his breath form a twist of vapour in front of his mouth.

“Right, let me have a look.”

Branagh simply nodded, stepping away to watch him work.

The detective wasn’t the worst copper Geoffrey had had to work with, but the man could be infuriatingly hard to read when he wanted to be.

The body was barely a person anymore.

Lacerations covered almost every available inch of skin, clothing torn and sheared away. Limbs had been pulled into unnatural contortions and huge chunks of flesh had been ripped from the body. It was savage and uncontrolled, and he got the feeling that this was borne of fury.

He continued looking at the body, and mentally catalogued all he noticed.

There were no bite marks.

Not a single puncture of a fang or tear from a bite.

Now _that_ was odd.

Some creatures didn’t bite of course, but the ones capable of such brutal and swift violence? That narrowed down the list quite a bit. Some skals could blink away in a moment, but they bit their victims. Certain beasts were probably fast enough, but those large and strong enough to kill a human so quickly were usually looking for food.

Vampires were the main suspects here, but Geoffrey was surprised if one could open so many wounds on a human and not give in to the urge to feed.

Very strange.

He sighed.

“I don’t know what caused this.” He admitted.

Branagh’s expression darkened, although it didn’t seem aimed at Geoffrey.

“I see.” He murmured. “Well, we need to identify the body. I’ll have it sent to Pembroke for autopsy.”

Geoffrey frowned, displeased.

“Isn’t there anywhere else?” he asked mulishly, not wanting to have to get anywhere near that hospital. He knew what lurked there, after all.

Branagh gave him an odd look.

“Not with a proper morgue, and not close enough.” He murmured, “Why the resistance?”

Geoffrey scowled. He didn’t have much choice, and here was not the place for the discussion.

“Just… have it sent there.” He sighed, waving the detective off. “I’ll go tomorrow evening and see what I can learn.”

Branagh frowned but nodded.

“I’ll work on getting witness statements.” He said, before pinning Geoffrey with a look so sharp it could have cut stone. “This had better not be the start of something.”

Geoffrey sighed.

“I hope not.”

* * *

Pembroke hospital was looking better.

During the epidemic, it had been a cesspool of despair and doomed hope but had slowly begun to change as the epidemic was fought.

Gone were the tents and emergency beds and gone were the patients kept in the halls for lack of a place to put them.

The hospital managed to look respectable now, but that didn’t put Geoffrey at ease at all. No number of immaculate gardens or clean, orderly halls would let him forget what this place really was. A chill settled over him as he passed under the wrought iron arch and stepped onto the grounds. It felt like he was intruding under the watchful eye of _something_. He was trespassing on fiercely guarded territory.

He sighed and headed for the front desk. It was manned by a nurse that speared him with a look the moment he walked in; her pretty face stony.

“Mr McCullum.” She greeted stiffly. “Do you require medical attention?”

He shook his head, watching her carefully. She seemed normal enough, and he was sure he recognised her. He had probably brought one of his boys in and made a mess, more likely than not.

He shook his head.

“No. I’m working with the police on a matter, and I need to see a body that was brought in last night.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I see. Well, I can’t just let anyone see a body without proof of purpose.” She said stiffly.

Annoyance sparked in his gut, and he frowned. He opened his mouth and was ready to snap something rude when he was cut off.

“Nurse Hawkins, he’s with me.”

Geoffrey glanced up as Branagh’s voice rang out from behind him, and he turned to see the detective heading his way from where he had been sitting on one of the low couches that constituted the waiting area. Geoffrey had missed him, deep in his own thoughts as he was. He had hoped to visit the morgue alone, but the detective seemed determined not to let Geoffrey shut him out.

The nurse looked at Geoffrey sharply, but nodded.

“So, he’s the associate you’ve been waiting for. Well, sign in and I’ll show you to the morgue. Dr Reid finished the autopsy only an hour or so ago, I believe.”

Geoffrey felt his blood run cold.

Stupidly, he had hoped that he could avoid the doctor, but of course he wouldn’t be that lucky.

“That was fast.” Branagh murmured with raised eyebrows, seemingly not noticing Geoffrey’s sudden stiffness.

Nurse Hawkins allowed herself a small, cool smile.

“Dr Reid is very efficient,” she said primly, with some admiration. “I believe he wanted to have the autopsy done by the time the police arrived.”

Branagh looked impressed. Geoffrey knew better than to be.

“Well, that certainly saves us time. Do you think we could speak with Dr Reid? It would be more helpful to speak in person rather than read notes.”

Geoffrey wanted to scream.

There was nothing he could do without drawing suspicion to himself, and if he did that then he would likely thrown off the case. That was unacceptable.

He held his tongue, feeling his body tingle with adrenaline even as a lead weight settled in his belly.

Nurse Hawkins nodded again, her face much softer for Branagh than it had been for Geoffrey.

“Of course. He’s in his office right now.” She said properly. “I shall escort you up.”

Feeling like he was underwater, Geoffrey forced his feet to move.

He felt like he was walking into an ambush that he knew was coming.

A leech in a hospital was a laughable thought until one remembered that it wasn’t funny at all.

The halls were clean and tidy, the occasional sound of snoring or subdued speaking audible through closed doors.

Nurses came and went, weary eyes contrasting with the hearty pallor of their skin showing that they were healthy, if a little tired of the night shift.

Geoffrey, who remembered the looks of despair and fatigued desperation from the epidemic, couldn’t help but marvel at the difference. The hospital was a world away from the hub of death and disease, the screaming and howling of the dying echoing down its halls. Now, one might even think it was a normal place, if one didn’t know what lurked in the shadows.

Nurse Hawkins led them up a sweeping staircase and towards the office that had once belonged to Dr Swansea.

Now, the nameplate read ‘Dr Reid’.

Geoffrey’s stomach turned.

Hawkins knocked at the door, and Geoffrey almost closed his hand around the handle of his knife as he heard that smooth baritone calling to them to enter, oddly soft in tone and yet with the kind of steady strength that carried.

Geoffrey would have preferred monsters sounded like what they were, but no one was that lucky.

The kind of monster that the good doctor was preferred to be the wolf among the sheep and blended in accordingly.

Hawkins and opened the door, introduced them in some way that Geoffrey didn’t listen to, and left. He steeled his nerve and calmed his racing heart.

He was man enough to admit to being somewhat nervous.

He was alone and without Priwen backup, with no sword or otherwise obvious weaponry.

He wasn’t defenceless, not at all, but even he wasn’t arrogant enough to believe that he could end a beast of the doctor’s calibre alone and armed only with a knife and a pistol.

The room was markedly different to when it belonged to Swansea he noticed as he followed the detective inside.

Swansea had kept the room neat and normal, but Reid seemed to have made it more personal and, to his surprise, untidier.

He had never thought of the doctor as a particularly messy man, but the proof was in the papers stacked on various surfaces and the equipment in varying stages of use. A healthy looking plant sat on a table over to the side, incongruously cheery.

And there he was.

Something primal and cold slid down his spine as he saw the figure in the white coat sitting behind his desk, watching them with a sharp, assessing gaze.

He spotted Geoffrey immediately, unnatural eyes pinning him as the corner of his mouth lifted into a small smile.

Geoffrey scowled at him, and that smile widened just a little.

He looked as untouchable as ever, all put together and immaculate. His neat appearance contrasted with his untidy workspace, but Geoffrey didn’t linger on the comparison.

There was a notebook in one hand a pen in the other, and he set them aside to stand and greet them. He had a sinuous grace that put Geoffrey on edge, perfectly controlled and calm.

He hated that calmness most of all.

Reid watched them carefully, his broad frame carrying his immaculate suit and white coat with more grace than should have been possible for a man his size. A red tie spilled down his chest like a bloodstain before disappearing under a tailored waistcoat.

“Good evening gentlemen.” He greeted easily, pale eyes lingering on Geoffrey. “It’s good to see you again Mr McCullum.”

Branagh glanced at him with a small frown, but his face grew understanding when he saw Geoffrey’s foul expression.

“I wish I could say the same.” Geoffrey bit out, unwilling to pretend at civility with a leech.

Reid simply looked amused as he sat, gesturing for them to do the same.

“Now, I assume you gentlemen are here regarding the body sent here last night?”

“Indeed.” Branagh inclined his head, “I understand you performed the autopsy yourself? I was surprised to hear that you did so personally.” He admitted.

Reid smiled, and Geoffrey’s scowl deepened to notice that it wasn’t wide enough to expose his teeth.

“I prefer a more hands on approach.” He explained with a genteel nod. “And this particular case interested me.”

Branagh looked disturbed. Of course, he didn’t know what the doctor knew of the shadowy world that overlapped with the normalcy of London.

“I see. Well, we would appreciate your assistance.” The detective said plainly. “What did you find out from the body?”

Reid tapped his notebook.

“I was just finishing my notes actually,” he murmured. “It's quite fascinating, if I’m honest.”

Geoffrey folded his arms.

“A man is _dead_ , Reid.” He bit out. “And the killer is still out there. I don’t give a shit how ‘fascinating’ it is unless you’ve got something useful.”

The doctor regarded him coolly, perfectly relaxed in his chair.

“As you say, Mr McCullum.” He said easily, including his head.

Geoffrey despised his poise.

The doctor tapped his finger against the page of his notebook, and Geoffrey hated to think of how those elegant fingers could sharpen into claws so sharp they could rend a man in two.

His eyes, unnaturally pale and keen, watched him.

Geoffrey swore he saw a glint of crimson.

“The cause of death was not blood loss.” The doctor said suddenly, and Geoffrey blinked.

How could the cause of death not be the injuries? The _cause_ of death wasn’t what he thought he would be surprised by.

“Indeed, while the injuries are most assuredly fatal, the actual cause of death was a massive heart attack.” He described, “Caused by, and I can only imagine how, fright.”

Geoffrey stared.

“He died of fright?” he asked, incredulous. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“If a shock to the system is sufficient enough it can trigger a massive surge of adrenaline, stunning the heart so severely it ceases to beat, Mr McCullum.” Reid said carefully. “It's not common, but also not unheard of.”

“So, he got a scare and dropped dead,” he bit out sourly. “But what about the injuries? Anything from them?”

Reid nodded.

“Yes. They match wounds left behind would indicate large animal or other predator, but the savagery of the attack suggests anger, not simply an act to bring down prey.” He explained. “Lacerations on his back show that he was chased down before being savaged. Of course, London has no animals capable of causing such damage in such a short amount of time. That leaves the question of what could be responsible for such an attack?”

Branagh shifted uncomfortably, obviously not wanting to discuss the potential supernatural element with the doctor, who he clearly didn’t realise wasn’t human at all.

The doctor stood up, and Geoffrey was reminded how much of a physical presence the man was. He was tall and broad, his shoulders filling out his white coat more than one would suspect from a toff doctor, even one that had served.

“I assume you would like to see the body yourselves?”

Geoffrey nodded.

“Yeah, lead the way.” He said, fixing the doctor with a hard stare that Reid simply ignored. Branagh looked curious and a little relieved that the doctor was not providing any resistance to their enquiries, and he kept glancing to where Geoffrey was glaring a hole into the doctor's back.

“You know the doctor?” he asked quietly as they walked down the sweeping staircase.

Geoffrey grunted.

“Yeah. Fucking prick.” He spat meanly, knowing that Reid would hear him.

Branagh raised an eyebrow.

“So that’s why you didn’t want to have the body brought to the Pembroke.” He murmured. “Will this be a problem?”

Geoffrey shot him a look.

“That depends.” He muttered, sour.

“On?”

“Whether he forces my hand.”

The detective didn’t seem to know what to make of that, but withdrew anyway, a frown on his face.

Geoffrey ignored him.

He marvelled at how the hospital staff seemed to have no idea the kind of monster they were allowing in their midst as he watched them greet the doctor and smile for him.

The nurses seemed to like him, and the patients either ignored him or murmured a quiet greeting.

For his part, Reid greeted some with a reserved little smile and, when one confused young man in a gown stepped out in front of him, paused to get him back to his room.

Upon closing the door, he smiled apologetically at them both.

“My apologies. It's a busy night tonight.” He explained as he continued on his way, beckoning them to follow.

The scent of blood and antiseptic wafted from behind a set of double doors they passed, and Geoffrey wrinkled his nose. Lights and noise inside gave him the impression someone was cleaning.

“Surgery.” Reid piped up when he caught him looking. “There was one earlier this evening. Thankfully minor, so Dr Tippets took the honour.”

“Why, does the blood bother you?” Geoffrey asked nastily, clenching his fist as Reid merely raised an eyebrow.

“Once? Yes. Now, not so much.” He said easily.

Branagh frowned.

“I thought you were the head surgeon here?” he asked, “Before your current position.”

Reid nodded as he led them through another set of doors.

“I was, but it took some time for me to settle into my new role. I had just returned from France and the sight of blood... affected me. Dr Swansea was kind enough to let me ease back into duties until I got myself under control.” He said with an easy smile. His voice was low and oddly soothing, his perfect diction and calm tone enough to set most people at ease.

Geoffrey wasn’t most people.

“This way, gentlemen.”

The morgue was across the gardens. The area was quiet and pleasant, but Geoffrey could pick out small things that made mention of this place's less than peaceful past. A claw mark here and a dark stain there. Nothing to those who didn’t know better, but to Geoffrey they were as clear as day.

He realised that everything was rather quiet.

There were no nurses bustling about, and no patients snoring or being moved.

Just him, the detective, and Reid.

A thought rose unbidden to his mind.

If Reid wanted them gone, it would be only to easy to be rid of them here. No witnesses, no one to call for help.

Reid had no reason to kill him of course, save for the obvious fact that he was a leech and that’s what they _did._

Another thought.

Something fast and brutal enough to kill in moments, but with enough control not to devour the victim.

He eyed the doctor's back, his white coat stained pale silver by the moonlight.

Something that would prefer not to be investigated for the murder.

He swallowed hard and ran a finger over the cross hanging at his neck.

The morgue was cold, immaculate, and creepy. Reid looked right at home.

He took them down a flight of stairs and into a large room with little doors lining the walls.

Geoffrey felt uneasy and skittish but forced himself calm.

Or, as calm as he could, anyway.

Reid opened one of the doors and, with little effort, rolled the tray out.

The body was somehow more unnerving now it had been cleaned up.

The skin was grey and tinged with blue, and the gouges looked oddly artificial.

Stitches showed where a scalpel had made a Y shaped incision into the torso, and the idea of Reid cutting up the body all alone in the morgue made him feel a little sick.

“There,” Reid murmured. “Take a look.”

Wrinkling his nose, Geoffrey peered at the body.

He wasn’t sure what he would find that Reid hadn’t, but he still felt like he should give it a once over.

“Did you find any possessions on him?” Branagh asked as he glanced at Reid.

The doctor nodded

“A wallet, cigarette case and some odds and ends.” He murmured, watching Geoffrey. “And a signet ring.”

Geoffrey’s head snapped up.

“You found a ring? That’s a good start on finding out who he is.”

The doctor nodded.

“I know.”

Branagh sighed.

“Right, I don’t think I’ll spot anything you won’t have, doctor.” He admitted. “If we may take a look at his effects, that would be appreciated.”

While the doctor obliged the detective, Geoffrey studied the corpse.

The face was of an older man in his late fifties, if he were to guess, and well groomed.

He was balding but what remained of his iron grey hair was neatly cut.

He looked like a toff, even like this.

Geoffrey sighed, and pulled away.

Branagh had, to his surprise, done a quick sketch of the signet ring. It was weathered and clearly old, but the crest was still mostly legible.

“Perfect, thank you doctor.” The detective bid, and Reid simply inclined his head.

“I was happy to be of service, detective.” His eyes met Geoffrey’s. “Mr McCullum.”

Geoffrey sneered at him, his hands itching to draw his stake.

“I’ll escort you off the premises, gentlemen.” the doctor murmured as they exited the building and headed for the gates. “I wouldn’t want you to end up anywhere you shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.” Geoffrey muttered. “I’m sure you’ve plenty of dirty secrets hidden away here that you don’t want to see the light of day.”

Reid smiled at him serenely as he left them at the gates, standing there in his bone white coat as he watched them go.

“I work the night shift Mr McCullum; _I_ don’t see the light of day.”

* * *

Geoffrey didn’t have to go to the West End.

Branagh seemed reluctant to share that duty, and that was more than fine for him.

He likely thought Geoffrey would mess up his interviews, which wouldn’t have been too far off the point. Toffs tended to clam up in front of men like Geoffrey, anyway.

Instead he stayed home, training the newest batch of recruits and handling supply paperwork.

It was pleasant.

The epidemic was over and with it the need to have patrols on every street, as well as taking any recruit they could find. Now, they could _choose_ who they wanted in the ranks and could train them accordingly.

He preferred it like that.

He lounged in his chair, cigarette between his lips as he studied some requisition orders and decided if he should approve them.

A mug of tea steamed gently next to him, strong and with barely any milk.

He could hear his men as they went about their business, the atmosphere a far cry from the tense and wound-tight feeling that had pervaded their headquarters during the epidemic.

It was nice to be surrounded by the low hum and sound of people as he worked. It was comforting, really, to be immersed in sounds of home.

He yawned, bringing up a hand to rescue his cigarette before it dropped from his mouth.

His thoughts drifted to the hospital, and what lurked there.

Reid.

A vampire doctor, how _poetic_.

Geoffrey had never been a man for literature or poetry, but something about that seemed artful.

He was, even if he hated to admit it, an interesting specimen.

Ever since that fateful day when he had run into the leech in Swansea’s office, he had had the hospital under watch, and there had been exactly zero reports of anything untoward happening there, beyond the strange occurrences during the epidemic. They weren’t strange for _him_ , considering he had ended up at the heart of them.

Reid was an odd one. He was a leech, no question of that, but Geoffrey wasn’t so blinded by hate to miss that he had managed to stay relatively human looking.

Vampires that fell too quickly tended to show that in their physical appearance, gaining the corrupted, sickly crimson eyes of a leech that fed to excess.

Reid’s unnaturally pale blue eyes held a hint of crimson within them but clearly not enough to mark him as inhuman, or he wouldn’t have been able to exist in polite society as well as he did.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t a monster, though. He didn’t have the haggard, sickly look of a starving vampire, so he must have been keeping himself decently fed.

Geoffrey shuddered, imagining the horror of the apparently kindly doctor baring his monstrous fangs and drinking deep from some poor unfortunate too stupid to see the signs.

Perhaps one day he would lead his men against the vampire that hid behind his white coat, but for now there were bigger fish to fry. Reid wasn’t actively causing chaos as far as they could tell, and it was far more prudent to focus on those that _were_ than to go after the one leech they could keep a decent eye on.

Smiling faintly, he stubbed out the remnant of his cigarette and took a sip of his tea.

Geoffrey couldn’t say that if the opportunity arose, a stake might not find its way into the good doctor’s heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm here, I'm late to the fandom, and I didn't even bring beer.
> 
> I did, however, bring weird pseudo-sexual tension and murder.
> 
> So you know, there's that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoffrey really hated being right, sometimes.

Geoffrey really hated being right, sometimes.

Lord Wormsley was, in fact, the body currently languishing in the Pembroke morgue.

He had been missing for two days, having gone out to meet with friends one evening and not returned.

Branagh had looked awfully tired when he had finally finished his round of interviews at the West End, and Geoffrey didn’t blame him.

He would rather hunt skals than talk to posh bastards all day.

He sighed as he lit the cigarette between his lips, adjusting his coat to better ward off the bone deep chill of an English winter.

He was waiting for Branagh, who had been decent enough to agree to an evening meeting, understanding of Geoffrey's nocturnal tendencies.

He leaned against the wall in Whitechapel, keeping an eye out for the detective.

He had been there for half an hour already, and his fingers and toes were like blocks of ice.

Footsteps, unhurried and measured, rang out at a distance. Ears pricking up, Geoffrey took a drag of his cigarette and watched.

Someone was coming, and they didn’t sound like they were in a hurry.

A figure turned the corner and Geoffrey scowled as he recognised the figure of the doctor, for once not swathed in his white coat.

No, he looked like even more of a toff than he did when he was working, his long tweed coat immaculate even amid the grime and grunge of Whitechapel.

His moonstone eyes found Geoffrey's immediately, and the hunter couldn’t help but shiver as they caught the flare from the lamps, just reflective enough to be unnerving in the low light.

“McCullum.” He greeted when he got close, expression, to Geoffrey's surprise, warm.

“Reid.” He spat back, tense. “What are you doing skulking around here?”

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“I’m doing my rounds and visiting a friend.” He said easily. “And I could ask you the same question.”

Geoffrey scowled, taking a pull of his cigarette.

“Waitin'.” He bit out, not wanting to be alone with a leech, even this one.

Reid seemed to study him for a moment, before apparently deciding that Geoffrey wasn’t worth it.

He inclined his head. “Well, enjoy the night Mr McCullum.” He murmured with a small smile, and Geoffrey really wanted to hit him. He was more likely to break his hand than the doctors nose though, and refrained. “Do try not to catch a cold.”

“Fuck off.” He grunted, shivering. “If I find any bodies...”

The doctor had the gall to sigh and pin him with an unimpressed look.

“Then I have no doubt you’ll deal with whatever left them.” He said dryly, “Goodnight, Mr McCullum.”

Geoffrey didn’t deign to respond to him, instead watching him as he walked off without so much as a backward look.

What an insufferable prick.

A thought surfaced in his mind as he wondered who the doctor’s friend might have been.

Sighing as he realised that he couldn’t follow the man and observe his business no matter how much he wanted to, considering he couldn’t risk leaving the detective high and dry.

The case was more important than spying on Reid, even though he would have liked nothing better than to make a nuisance of himself.

He flicked his cigarette butt to the ground and watched the glow fade before lighting another one.

The burn of the smoke kept him warm, and it saw that his hands remained busy.

Eventually, the detective rounded the corner and Geoffrey shot him a glare.

“You took your time.” He ground out, unable to feel his toes.

Branagh looked irritatingly toasty in his heavy clothes and boots, and he merely raised an eyebrow at Geoffrey.

“I was caught up at the station.” He replied calmly, and Geoffrey was getting really sick of being around unflappable people.

“Well I’m hypothermic now, so if we could hurry this along?” he snapped, taking a last drag of his cigarette, and flicking it to the floor where he crushed it under his boot.

Branagh ignored his taunt.

“Lord Wormsley was seen at the church the night after he apparently went missing,” the detective informed him flatly. “One of the residents offered the information when one of my officers went asking.”

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows.

“Whitechapel is not the usual kind of place a West End Lord visits.”

Branagh looked grim.

“I know. Ever since the priest went missing, that place has been sealed up tight.”

Geoffrey fell into step with him as the detective began walking.

“The priest?” he prompted.

“He went missing during the epidemic.” The detective supplied. “One day he was preaching out on the steps, the next he was gone. We were given evidence that he was leading some kind of… holy crusade against the sick.” He admitted with a grimace. “He was burning them alive.”

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows.

“Well, shit.” He managed, surprised. “That’s vile.”

Branagh nodded.

“We got an anonymous tip about it a few days before he disappeared but the officer in charge didn’t action it, I found out.” He seemed frustrated. “My guess is someone took the law into their own hands.”

“But that means the church has been closed since then?”

“It has.” He nodded, watching the street in front of them. “We will have to talk to the residents to find out more. This isn’t an area of the city I’m familiar with.”

Remembering their conversation on the docks, Geoffrey sneered.

“Is there any part of the city that you _are_ familiar with, detective?” he asked meanly, “That isn’t the West End, I mean.”

Branagh just frowned and stayed silent.

Their wandering took them towards the church, and they noted a few brave souls still out at this hour.

The church had seen better days.

It was shut tight, and by the state of disrepair the garden and fence had fallen into, it hadn’t been in use for some time. Geoffrey wondered why the church didn’t send another priest to take it over.

Whitechapel tended get forgotten about.

“Who was it that spoke to your men?” he asked, interested. He felt like he was being watched.

“A man named Levington,” the detective murmured, scanning the streets. “He’s homeless and was more than happy to talk for a few shillings. I believe he’s taking refuge close by.”

Geoffrey nodded, sighing.

“I suppose we had better find him, then.”

* * *

In the end, Levington had been easy to find.

He was sleeping under a tarpaulin outside a small boarded up shop, a fire lit in a barrel next to him and swathed in enough ratty blankets to resemble a particularly repellent slug.

“Whatchu want?” he mumbled, annoyed as they woke him.

“Matthew Levington?” the detective asked, peering down at the man. “I’m Detective Branagh.”

The man blinked bloodshot, tired eyes.

“Oh. Yeah, one o’ your boys said you’d be round. You got my money?”

Branagh silently withdrew a small pouch of coins, letting them jingle enticingly.

Levington stared hungrily at the pouch.

“Whaddaya wanna know?”

“The bloke you saw the night before last,” Geoffrey prompted. “Tell us about him.”

“That posh fuck? Yeah, stood out a mile.” Levington smiled with blackened, broken teeth. “Came hurryin’ along like he had the hounds of hell on his heels, and went straight to the church. Seemed mighty upset to see it was shut.” He shrugged. “He talked to that whore, Christina, and then left.”

Geoffrey frowned.

“He left immediately? So, he was only here for the church?”

Levington shrugged again, his straggly hair flat against his skull where it was slicked down with grease and grime. “Looked like it. Dunno though. Can I have my money now?”

Branagh questioned him for a few more minutes on the validity of what he saw, but it didn’t seem like they would get anything further from the man.

With a tightening of the detective’s mouth, he tossed the coin pouch to their informant, and stepped back as the man eagerly ripped into it to count the amount.

Geoffrey followed him.

“The description matches Wormsley.” He admitted. “Down to the clothes.”

“Which means he didn’t change them prior to meeting his end.” Branagh pointed out. “And he was here in a hurry, looking for the church.”

“He was upset that it was closed.” Geoffrey nodded. “Levington said Wormsley spoke to someone called Christina.”

“Popa, yes.” The detective sighed. “She’s a prostitute and is unlikely to talk to me.”

Geoffrey gave him a crooked grin, resisting the urge to light a cigarette. “But I’m no bobby,” he pointed out. “She might talk to me.”

With a raised eyebrow, the detective shrugged.

“I suppose you would have more luck than me.” He admitted. “She’s not far at all, just on the next street, if memory serves.”

His memory did serve, and soon Geoffrey was approaching the woman who stood on the street corner, smoking. She was tall and dressed in a shapeless coat, but her makeup was heavy, and her hair was teased into some elaborate style that looked like it was half falling down her head.

“Christina?” he asked as he approached, noticing how she regarded him with suspicious eyes. Her lips curved into a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Looking for company, handsome?”

Geoffrey didn’t blink at her seductive tone and the lilt of her accent.

“Not really,” he said with a small smile designed to put her at ease. “I was looking for information. I’ll pay.”

Her smile dissolved into a scowl, and she took a drag of her cigarette.

“I’m not a snitch.” She said flatly, “I’ve no business with the police.”

“Then it’s a good thing that I’m not police.” He said with a shrug. “I’m after information about a man you might have talked to the night before last. Posh sort, in a rush, balding and grey haired? Wore a blue coat?”

Christina’s eyes were flat as she surveyed him.

“How much are you paying?” she asked, and the steadiness of her look was heavy. When he told her, it was hard not to miss the flicker of want that crossed her face.

“Double it.”

He shook his head, named a new figure that was more reasonable, and let her convince herself.

“Money now, then information.” She demanded.

Geoffrey gave her a small grin.

“Half now, half when I know you’ve actually got something useful.”

She scowled but held out her hand for the money anyway. The amount wasn’t much, but Geoffrey knew he could get reimbursed by Branagh. The detective was scrupulous like that.

“Yeah, I saw him. Spoke to him, too.” She said, eyeing him as though he might give away some clue as to why he was asking. “He came from the church. He asked why it was closed. When I told him, he looked upset. He asked where the nearest church was.” She admitted. “I told him it was St Mary’s, and he ran off without a thank you.”

Geoffrey frowned.

“So, any church would do?” he murmured, half to himself. Christina nodded.

“It seemed so.” She agreed, finishing her cigarette. “He looked scared to death.”

Grimacing at her wording, he asked her a few more questions that went nowhere or merely confirmed other information, before handing her the rest of the money and bidding her goodnight.

Branagh was not where he left him but was instead talking with someone in the shadow of an awning.

When he saw the familiar profile of the doctor, his mood plummeted.

“I thought I told you not to skulk, Reid.” He called and felt his lip curl when the doctor faced him. A woman was at his side, half obscured by her hat.

“Mr McCullum.” Reid greeted like he was merely an acquaintance that he was pleasantly surprised to meet on the street. “I believe I told you I was visiting a friend. Hsiao Shun was kind enough to invite me inside to get out of the cold.” He said with an amiable tone, and the woman at his side gave a reserved smile. “I was just heading back home now my rounds are finished.”

Branagh, who was apparently pleased to see the doctor, nodded.

“Do you frequent the area often, doctor?” he asked, hands shifting as though he wanted to take out his notebook and start writing.

Reid nodded.

“Every couple of nights.” He admitted. “I like to keep my rounds regular.”

“I don’t suppose you were here the night before last?”

Geoffrey narrowed his eyes as the doctor shook his head.

“I’m afraid not. I was at the hospital all night.”

“Can anyone confirm that?” he cut in, unable to keep the smirk off his face. He was sure the doctor had the perfect alibi, but it was too rewarding to watch him frown.

“Most of the staff,” he said dryly. “I was in surgery for four hours.”

Branagh gave Geoffrey an odd look, but soon turned away from him. Reid looked every inch the pale monster in the moonlight, and Geoffrey didn’t know how people didn’t see him and just _know._

“I believe our victim came through here.” The detective disclosed with a concerned glance at the woman by the doctor’s side. She was slight and pretty, her features quite different from what Geoffrey was used to. There was something sad and yet solid about her presence. “He was looking to enter the church.”

Reid’s eyebrows raised.

“I suppose he didn’t know that it’s been closed for a while.” He murmured.

“I’m surprised you’d notice, doctor.” Geoffrey shot at him, “You’re not one for church, are you?”

Of course, he knew that was because the doctor was an unholy creature, repelled by faith. No wonder something like him couldn’t set foot on holy ground.

Reid’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly.

“Leading an inquisition, McCullum?” he asked coolly, something acidic in his tone. It seemed like Geoffrey had struck a nerve. “In addition to a militia?”

Branagh frowned.

“Gentlemen, please.”

Reid straightened himself, looking contrite.

“My apologies, sir.” He murmured. “Mr McCullum and I have never seen eye to eye. Now, I really must be getting back. If you would excuse me?”

With a stiff nod, he and his companion made their exit, leaving Geoffrey and Branagh to watch them go.

“Must you be so antagonistic?” the detective asked, irritated.

Geoffrey smirked.

* * *

Neither of them seemed inclined to resume the case the next day, so they headed for St Mary's church despite the cold.

It was a more pleasant place than the Whitechapel church, the lights on and the area around the entrance was clean and well maintained.

“The former vicar, Larabee, died during the epidemic.” Branagh sighed. “Poor man was at the cemetery and ended up torn to pieces by something.”

Geoffrey raised his eyebrows.

“That’s two priests gone. Strange, don’t you think?”

Branagh shrugged.

“Not really. Those were chaotic times, and we’ve had no evidence Larabee was up to anything as reprehensible as Whitaker was.”

He knocked on the heavy wood door and waited for a response.

There was some shuffling and the sound of a chain dragging over metal before the door opened.

The man in front of them peered out from where he had opened the door, looking a little suspicious of their presence at such a late hour.

He wore the cassock and dog collar of a vicar and smiled warily when he greeted them.

“Good evening gentlemen,” he murmured in a broad West Country accent. “Can I help you?”

Branagh nodded.

“I’m detective Branagh, and this is Mr McCullum. We have some questions for you if you don’t mind?”

The vicar relaxed, his shoulders losing their hunched quality as Branagh explained who they were. He opened the door wider, and stepped aside to allow them in.

“Vicar David Thorton.” He said with more warmth, a kind smile crinkling his eyes. “Do come in, gentlemen.”

Grateful for the warmth and light, Geoffrey stepped inside. The smell of dust and old stone greeted him, and he immediately felt more at ease. He liked churches, and not just because the creatures of the night tended to stay away from them.

While he cast his eye around, Branagh had explained the bare bones of why they were there, and the vicar was looking quite concerned.

“A murder? How awful.” He sighed. “Yes, I recall the gentleman in question, he was quite memorable. He came knocking at the door in such a state, I invited him in and tried to calm him down. The man was hysterical!”

Thorton raised a hand to idly touch the cross hanging from his neck.

“He was talking about all sorts of insane things,” the man admitted. “He wanted me to protect him, but he wouldn’t say from what. He seemed to think I knew something about… Well, about monsters, sirs.”

Geoffrey frowned.

“Monsters? Such as?”

The vicar blinked, seemingly surprised that they didn’t dismiss him immediately. “Well, he mentioned _vampires_. He… he wanted to stay in the church, he said. Wanted me to give him some holy water, some wooden stakes and other nonsense.” He wrinkled his nose. “I thought him mad.”

Geoffrey and Branagh shared a look.

“Was there anything else?” the detective prompted.

“That was all, really.” The vicar sighed. “When I told him to calm himself, that such creatures do not exist… he fled.”

“He ran?”

Thorton nodded, as baffled as they were. “Yes. He looked angry, but then he went for the door and disappeared into the night. I went after him out of concern for the poor madman, but he was running in the direction of the docks.”

Geoffrey nodded, storing the information away for later perusal.

“Along Lombard Street?” he asked, and the vicar nodded.

Geoffrey sighed.

“Well, looks like we’re going to the docks.” He said, glancing at Branagh. The man looked washed out and tired, but the warmth of the church was giving colour to his cheeks again.

Thorton fidgeted.

“Sirs, how did he die?” he asked quietly, imploring. “I cannot help but feel responsible for not stopping him.”

Privately, Geoffrey knew that if the vicar had managed to keep the Wormsley in the church, he would likely have lived another day. As it was, the vicar couldn’t have known what was waiting for him outside.

He shook his head.

“He was found in the street at the docks, outside the pub.” He admitted. “He had been viciously attacked, and we are trying to figure out why.”

Thorton sighed, wringing his hands together. “Well, I hope you find the culprit and keep them from harming anyone else.”

Branagh looked solemn.

“We will do our best,” he assured. “You’ve been most helpful, vicar. Thank you.”

Thorton bid them well and escorted them out into the chill, looking troubled even as he waved goodbye.

Geoffrey shook a cigarette from it’s pack and lit it, taking a deep, burning drag.

“So, our Lord Wormsley was afraid of vampires. Or rather, _a_ vampire.” He murmured. “So afraid that he went to a church to seek sanctuary and advice on the supernatural. When that church was closed, he went to the next. When he realised that the vicar was oblivious to what lurks in the shadows, he made for the docks.”

Branagh frowned.

“But why the docks? There’s no churches that way, nor any spots I can think of where one might be safe.”

Geoffrey’s mind fought to come up with an answer, but the fog of tiredness and cold was too much.

“I don’t know.” He admitted with a gusty sigh. “But I’m too fuckin’ tired to think right now.”

Branagh nodded, his face drawn and grim.

“Overmorrow, we return to the docks.” He decided, “I've the family to give an update to tomorrow. I’ll wait for you at sundown in the Turtle.”

Too tired to argue, Geoffrey nodded.

“Yeah, see you then.” He paused, watching the detective as he made to leave. “Branagh,” he called, stopping the other man in his tracks. From his pocket, Geoffrey withdrew a small wooden cross, simple and sturdy. He tossed it to the detective, who caught it, bemused.

“Take it.” The hunter muttered. “If Wormsley was running scared…”

“What killed him might still be out at night.” He finished, grim. “Thank you, McCullum.”

Geoffrey shrugged, feeling tense.

“If you find yourself needing to use it, do so and run.” He advised.

Branagh looked unsure, but he nodded anyway.

“Thank you, hunter.”

“Thank me when this case is over.”

* * *

Geoffrey slept like the dead, his sleep dreamless and deep enough to leave him groggy despite getting a decent amount of it.

He woke, groaned, tried to convince himself it was okay to go back to sleep, failed, and sighed.

He lay in bed for a few minutes while his mind blinked back into reality.

His bed was warm and comfortable, and he could hear the noise of the shift change drifting up to his ears.

With a sigh and more cursing than was probably necessary, he drew back the sheets and winced as his feet hit the cold floor, the chill grasping at his toes and working its way up his feet.

He grimaced, pulling on his clothes and going about his daily routine. He wasn’t a vain man, nor did he place a particular importance on his appearance, but the routine was a pleasant, mindless way to start the morning.

By the time he headed down to the mess hall, he was awake and alert.

Well, he would be once he had acquired some food and a cup of strong tea.

If there was one good thing about the Priwen mess hall, it was the _food_.

He settled himself at his usual table, a few reports in his hands as he tucked into his breakfast, occasionally turning a page or making a note.

The noise was pleasant and homely, and he let the chatter soothe his nerves.

He could have passed this case off to one of his boys, but something in him didn’t want to. It wasn’t that they couldn’t handle it, he knew they could, but this felt... different. It was hard to explain and he didn’t not being able to put his finger on it.

Geoffrey didn’t like ‘complicated’.

The sun was sinking below the horizon by the time Geoffrey was ready to start working, pulling on his heavy overcoat and wrapping up with a scarf and gloves and a hat.

He stepped out into the air, feeling it bite at his skin and worm under his clothes to chill him. It was bitterly cold, too cold even for snow.

His breath misted in front of him in a twist of vapour that dispersed after a moment, visible against the grimy walls lit by soft orange gold light from the setting sun.

Buoyed by his favourite time of the day, he checked his weapons, lit a cigarette, and headed off towards St Mary's church. Branagh was off playing politics with the family, so Geoffrey was doing the real work.

He doubted the vicar would be of any further help, but he had given them a place to start.

Lord Wormsley had fled down the street towards the docks, and that was where Geoffrey would start.

He passed people on the streets, hurrying home before the last of the sunlight trickled over the tops of the houses. Most paid him no mind, but others gave him fearful looks.

The Guard of Priwen wasn’t _secret_ , but their purpose wasn’t widely known. After all, who would believe that they hunted vampires and other monsters of the night?

Most just assumed them to be another London gang out to claim territory and give beatings, and that reputation was useful. It kept people out of their business, something with Geoffrey was grateful for.

He reached the church, the sunset fading into the gloom of twilight by the time he had walked there. The chill had settled into something heavy and oppressive, the air biting his throat and lungs as he breathed.

English winters could be brutal, even in the south. He preferred summer, even if it came with the stink of the Thames and the buzz of wasps.

Starting at the church, he headed down Lombard street in the direction that the priest had indicated, keeping his eyes open.

He wasn’t hopeful of finding anything, since it was three days since Wormsley had set off on his doomed dash through the streets of London.

He kept his pace slow and steady, his torch illuminating the cobbles and walls in a fuzzy orange light.

It would gave been easier to spot discrepancies in the daylight, but the night helped to visualise what could have happened to the unfortunate Lord.

There were multiple paths to the docks once one left Lombard Street.

Geoffrey was no police detective, but he was sharp and observant

If he were fleeing a leech with no weaponry, where would he go?

He would want to get out of these narrow streets, for one.

Not only could they end up claustrophobic and baffling to those unfamiliar with them, they offered too many hiding spots and shadows for a leech to hide in.

The twists and turns would only slow you down, and you ran the risk of taking a wrong turning or being cut off.

Better to head for the waterfront and head to the docks from there. It was open and lit by moonlight.

With this in mind, he mentally catalogued his route.

Down Lombard Street, turn down Abchuch Lane and head down all the way before crossing over to Laurence-Pountney Lane and onto either Swan or Angel.

Hm, but which one?

Angel was closer, but it was barely more than an alleyway, cramped and overlooked.

Swan was wider and lit with a lamp at one end.

Swan it was.

Aware that this was, at best, complete guesswork, he trudged through his supposed route.

He was freezing cold and a bit out of his depth, but it didn’t stop him pulled his heavy coat closer about himself and making for where the emerging moonlight stained the tops of the ripples in the Thames a bright silver.

Mentally shrugging and deciding that at least it was a pleasant walk even if he turned out to be wrong, he headed along the seawall that had seen better days.

He had been walking for around ten minutes when he spotted lights ahead, like tiny lanterns in the distance. A group of men, dressed in shabby, ill-fitting clothes and sharing two cigarettes around the group.

Homeless.

If they had been there on the night of the murder, they would have seen something.

If, of course, his theory as to the route had been correct.

“Hullo, sirs.” He greeted easily, very aware of the weapons on his person and how the men in front of him moved.

They looked up, eyeing him with suspicion. Geoffrey was hardly a West End toff at a glance but didn’t look like he was standing in line at the Sean Hampton’s shelter either.

“Whatchu want?” one of the men asked gruffly, his words half swallowed by his ragged beard.

“I’m lookin’ for information.” Geoffrey said easily, keeping things friendly. His accent often changed without him noticing it and depending who he was talking to, and he felt himself slip back into his stronger brogue without meaning to. The less he sounded like a dandy, the more likely these men would trust him. “Were any of you lads here four nights ago? I’m after anyone who might have seen a toff running towards the docks.”

The men sniggered, and one took a drag of the cigarette in his hands before handing it to his friend. “Why, he lost?” he jeered, eyes dark in the gloom. His friends gave low laughs. “Poncy boy ended up somewhere his mama don’t approve?”

“Actually, he was murdered.” Geoffrey answered coolly, “Torn apart right in front of the Turtle.”

The men fell quiet, expressions sobering. The man who had spoken earlier scowled.

“Yeah? Well, give my love to the bastard what did it.” He spat. “I don’t care what happened to no rich boy.”

“You might not care what happened to him, but you should care about me asking you about him.” Geoffrey warned darkly, annoyed. “I’ll pay for information, but I’m not averse to beating it out of you either.”

The man frowned, expression turning ugly.

“Yeah? You’re _alone_ you potato fucker.”

Potato fucker.

Original.

Almost as clever as being called a _leprechaun_.

Geoffrey shrugged, irritated but not dissuaded.

“Yeah, but I’m armed and you’re not.” He pointed out, lifting his coat a little so they could see the machete strapped to his belt, the pistol holstered at his hip and the stake sitting next to it.

One of the men noted the odd implement.

“A stake?” he asked before he took worried a step back. “Fuck, you’re on of those Priwen crazies.”

Geoffrey shot him a grin.

“Mmhm. Me and my boys are looking into this murder, so either work with me, or I’ll beat you until the secrets come out.”

A tense few seconds passed until one of the men, a twitchy looking thing with red hair matted to his head and the kind of eyes that said that he was just looking for a reason threw himself at Geoffrey with a furious curse.

The hunter stepped to the side, burying his fist into the man’s emaciated stomach with enough force that he went down like a sack of turnips, wheezing on the grubby cobbles and clutching his stomach. Geoffrey gave him a vicious kick for good measure, lip curling as the bile trickled from his would-be attacker’s mouth.

London had enough trouble without humans making his job difficult.

“So,” he murmured, glancing back at the two remaining men. They looked tense. “Are you ready to answer my fucking questions?”

At their mumbled, fearful affirmative, he nodded.

“I want to know if a man, well dressed and in a distinctive blue coat came by hear a few nights ago. Mid-fifties, balding, thin and carried a silver topped cane?”

While that wasn’t the best description of the late Lord Wormsley, it would have to do. Geoffrey wasn’t a trained officer, but he doubted such a man would have been easily missed in this part of the city.

A little bit of shuffling and the bearded man nodded reluctantly, his eyes dropping every so often to his friend that was curled on the floor, shaking.

“Yeah.” He admitted. “Sounds like the man we saw. Real fancy. Ran right past us, didn’t even say nothin’.”

Geoffrey, eager to know more, pressed him.

“What direction was he heading?” he asked, “Did you notice anything else about him?”

The man scratched his grimy beard.

“He was headin’ dockward.” He gave a wavering point. “Runnin' like the hounds of hell were on his heels, too.”

Geoffrey pressed him for a few more minutes and gained nothing further, but now he knew his route was accurate.

Lord Wormsley had run straight for the docks after leaving the church. He had not made a detour or changed his route, implying that he was headed to the docks for a specific reason, not simply because he ended up there in a panic.

He thanked the men, careful to avoid the one on the floor lest they grab him and headed back to the Priwen barracks, keeping his coat pulled tight around him. Gone were the nights that he had to worry about being jumped by a pack of skals in the main street, and it wasn't a change he hated.

He had no sooner made it into the warmth when one of his boys hurried up to him, his face set in consternation.

Judging by his pale complexion, wide eyes and the general state of unease pervading the usually homely headquarters, the news he was about to receive was nothing good. Geoffrey sighed, something unpleasant worming into his insides.

“Geoffrey?” the young man greeted in a rush.

“Spit it out.” He ordered, his mood turning dark. His scout looked sheepish for all of a moment, before his young face turned grim.

“Sir, they've found another body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Geoffrey just wants to be out of the cold and for people to stop murdering in his city, is that too much to ask for?
> 
> Jonathan is being infuriating, as usual.
> 
> Branagh just wants Geoffrey to stop being such a shit.
> 
> I really liked Hsiao Shun, and I like to think she and Jonathan remain friends. He visits her to make sure she's alright, and she talks to him to keep him from being lonely. I like their friendship!
> 
> Also, I know it's not feasible to do in game, but I headcanon that notevil!Jonathan totally would have tried to report Father Whitaker to the police. He's a West End lad and therefore likely still had faith in the police (unlike anyone not born with a silver spoon), but once they did nothing with his carefully prepared evidence, only then did he take matters into his own hands (or fangs).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So yes, I’m used to it.” He bit out, voice low. “But it sure as fuck doesn’t get any easier.”

The house was in the West End, nestled in a wealthy cul-de-sac, with a small courtyard servicing several imposing townhouses.

The cold was biting, and Geoffrey’s nose was already numb, his lungs twinging with every breath he took.

Every night seemed colder than the last.

Freezing fog had settled over the city, diffusing the light from the lamps and creating pools of shadow where they didn’t reach.

The cobbled streets were frosted over and he had to be careful not to lose his balance, taking a drag of his cigarette to guard against the chill. His heavy coat, scarf and gloves did an admirable job of fending off the cold, but his exposed skin was bitten red by the wind.

As he walked, he noted the light on in windows, curtains pulled close to protect from the outside world. Sometimes he could make out the silhouette of furniture or pictures on the sill, and once or twice he saw people moving around inside.

He liked knowing people were inside and safe, going about their business as though monsters weren’t real. It made him feel less isolated on the dark streets, and that was comforting.

Geoffrey wasn’t a social man, and he liked his alone time. He liked his own company, but he didn’t like being lonely. He wasn’t, for the most part. His men were a constant presence and he got on with most of them, but there was always that divide between them.

Geoffrey was the boss.

That would always come first.

He pulled his scarf higher on his neck as he walked, stepping into the more brightly lit streets of the residential West End. He began to see people out at night in these streets, either working or stepping out for fresh air.

He had never felt comfortable in the West End, he was too much of a commoner to pass for a toff, but the clean streets and air of placid safety was nice.

It was false of course, but still.

He appreciated the illusion.

He came upon the street where the house was, spotting a commotion and heading for it.

There was a small crowd outside, held at bay by grim faced police officers.

He took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked the stub into the gutter, sighing as the last of the warmth faded with his exhale.

What a fucking _mess._

The police line let him through, a stone-faced bobby moving to let him pass with a respectful nod.

Branagh must have warned them of his arrival. It was quite strange, not sticking to the shadows, not looking over his shoulder or spinning a lie about what he was doing out so late.

Hell, even _seeing_ the police was strange, since most of the districts that he frequented were not exactly hotspots of police activity.

With a grim feeling pervading his belly, he ignored the whispers and craning necks and entered the house.

The lobby was beautiful and so classy that it made Geoffrey uncomfortable.

He didn’t belong in places like this.

A bobby stood guard over the door to the rest of the house, his expression watchful and cool.

“Upstairs, sir.” He directed. “Detective Branagh is waiting for you in the master bedroom.”

Geoffrey nodded, disquieted by the immaculate nature of the house. It was quiet save for the heavy ticking of a carriage clock, muffled by heavy drapes and thick wallpaper.

It even smelled fancy, with the scent of wood polish, cured leather and old cigar smoke reaching his nostrils.

At the policeman’s behest, he headed for the stairs. They were large and sweeping, a true show of wealth.

As he ascended, Geoffrey took note of his surroundings.

Expensive everything, and with good taste.

No photographs of any kind, and nothing to indicate a woman’s touch.

Interesting.

He barely had time to wonder how he was supposed to know which was the master bedroom when he spotted the policeman standing ramrod straight outside an open door at the end of a corridor, low murmurs coming from inside. He couldn’t make out the voices yet, but there seemed to be enough of them to make their words indistinct. All men, as far as he could hear.

Moonlight spilled from the window at the end of the corridor, staining the dark runner a frosted blue and making the buttons on the policeman’s uniform shine.

This house seemed strange.

Not in an obviously supernatural way, but in a very human, normal way.

This, as far as he could take this wild guess, was the house of a bachelor.

A rich one, and probably an heir to some name or another, but a bachelor none the less.

It was a wild assumption, and Geoffrey looked forward to seeing if it was true.

He headed for the door, hearing Branagh's voice raising to prominence among the general murmur.

The detective was a solid presence, and while Geoffrey couldn’t say he actively liked the sandy haired man, he respected him enough to include him in the investigation.

He was sharp and took no shit, and didn’t brush Geoffrey off like so many other bobbies would, and had, done.

He was a serious sort, and that was just what Geoffrey wanted when working with someone.

Well, that and a general sense of competence, he supposed.

He headed down the hall, intent on entering the bedroom where he assumed the crime had taken place.

“Watch your feet, sir.” The bobby warned him dryly as he went to open the door for Geoffrey. “I hope you didn’t wear your good shoes.”

Glancing down at his battered, sturdy boots, Geoffrey gave him a little grin.

“Ain’t no such thing in my profession.” He replied, and walked inside.

The smell of blood hit his nose like a freight train.

It was so strong and cloying that he felt the urge to sneeze, the metallic taste settling in the back of his throat and making it hard to breathe.

The bedroom was a fancy thing, all wood panelling and dark wood furniture with heavy, expensive fabrics.

Blood was splashed over what seemed like every inch, concealing on the fine wood and making his boots sink into the heavy carpet with a nauseating squish.

Two men were gathered around something on the floor, and Geoffrey recognised Branagh's coat. The other was taller and broader, leaning down to look intently at the body, which Geoffrey couldn’t see much of.

His mood soured more than it had already plummeted. Reid was easy to recognise, even without his white coat.

Geoffrey felt himself tense up and stay like that, his hand wishing to wrap his fingers around his stake for security.

The smell of blood was overwhelming to him, so he didn’t want to think about what it must have been like for Reid.

“McCullum.” The doctor greeted without turning around or looking up, and Geoffrey _hated_ that the leech always seemed to know when it was him.

Branagh glanced over, his expression grave.

“You got here quickly.” He remarked, graciously moving aside the allow Geoffrey a space in to view the body.

“I wasn’t going to dawdle.” He muttered back, distracted by the tangle of flesh that had once been the man of the house.

Reid glanced up at him, face serious and drawn. He was holding himself rigidly, as though he was wound tight and tense, and his moonstone eyes were intense as he stared.

“McCullum.” He greeted, his smooth, rich voice now sounding forced.

Geoffrey was tempted to make some kind of remark on the doctor's predicament, but even he wasn’t so tone deaf.

This was not the time.

“Reid.” He nodded, and saw the doctor’s shoulders relax minutely as Geoffrey didn’t go on the offensive.

Interesting, but not something to think about now.

He looked down at the body, the smell of blood coating his mouth and throat and making him feel like it was slithering up his nose.

“Fuck,” he heard himself say, wrinkling his nose. The body could barely be called a corpse, considering it was savaged to such a degree that it looked instead like so many chunks of meat scattered in a pile.

“No bite marks here either,” Reid murmured as he carefully looked at the victim, ignoring his Branagh looked at him sharply. “It looks like he’s been literally torn apart.”

He gestured to a lump of flesh that had probably been a shoulder.

“You see here? If this were done with a weapon, there would be an edge to the wound. Instead, it appears like his shoulder was dislocated and the arm torn off with great force.” He murmured, a small furrow in his brow. Geoffrey mirrored him, unnerved.

“Anything else you can tell us?” he asked, not wanting to be staring at the mass of flesh that had once been a person any longer than he had to.

Reid straightened, and Geoffrey felt a twinge of annoyance at how the doctor stood several inches taller than he was. He was a powerfully built man, and angular in a way that Geoffrey could best describe as avian. He wondered if what was once Jonathan Reid had been this intense when he was human.

The doctor tilted his head, and Geoffrey was further inclined to think him birdlike when he did that. It was a strange thought, but one that he couldn’t shake.

“The attack suggests a certain degree of rage.” He murmured, “But there is no sign of forced entry. Either the door was wide open, or the victim let the killer inside.”

Geoffrey blinked.

That was a good point. Nothing suggested forced entry, and if their theory of the killer being a vampire was correct, it couldn’t have simply broken in without an invitation. The way Reid was looking at him, his eyes piercing and curious, said that he too had thought of this and was wondering if Geoffrey had also made the connection.

“Good eye.” Branagh muttered, although he didn’t seem surprised. “Anything more?”

The doctor shook his head, mouth a grim line.

“Nothing relevant to you, not right now.” He admitted. “I’ll do a more thorough examination at the hospital, but there’s nothing aside from the obvious about the body that I could give you, not without confirming it first.”

Geoffrey sneered.

“Pretty useless then, aren’t you?” he remarked snidely, and was rewarded by the doctor’s eyes narrowing faintly.

“If you would prefer that I leave you to do the autopsy, I would be more than happy for you to do so.” Reid responded with a polite tone that Geoffrey knew really meant ‘fuck you’, and a spark of something in his eyes that made Geoffrey’s spine itch and his breath catch.

Branagh frowned.

“I suggest that instead of antagonising each other, we decide on our next steps?” he said snippily, clearly irritated by their byplay.

Well, Geoffrey wouldn’t give up antagonising Reid for anything less than the apocalypse, and maybe not even then.

So, if Branagh wanted him to stop, he would be waiting an exceedingly long time.

Reid nodded, straightening his clothes with the air of a large bird with ruffled feathers.

“Of course, detective.” He murmured. “I will attend to the autopsy and inform you of any developments.” He paused for a moment, and his moonstone eyes found Geoffrey’s again. It was hard not to look away. “This feels like something more than a serial killer.” He said lowly, and Geoffrey knew what he was implying.

Vampires.

Well, Geoffrey knew that already.

“Obviously.” He snapped back, feeling his lip curl.

The corner of Reid’s mouth lifted, not quite enough to expose a fang.

“You know where to find me if you need me, McCullum.” He bid, the words hanging heavy in the blood-soaked air. He gave them a respectful nod and, taking his formidable presence with him, left the room.

His footsteps were too quiet for someone of his size, padding softly over the floor was though he wasn’t six three of presence and power under that fussy suit.

Geoffrey wanted to hit something, and maybe light a cigarette.

Branagh looked at the door the doctor had disappeared through.

“I don’t understand your hatred of him,” he began slowly, “But he is an exceptionally odd man, and I can’t put my finger on why.”

Geoffrey grunted, glaring at the door like he was Reid himself.

“You don’t know the half of it, detective.”

* * *

Outside, Geoffrey couldn’t help but be grateful for the fresh air, even if it came with the biting chill that made his breath short and his nose ache.

With steady hands, he lit up a cigarette and blew smoke out from pursed lips, letting the repetitive action calm him down. The area was well lit and still had a police presence, and it felt oddly safe to be around so many people at this time of the night.

Of course, nowhere was truly safe.

In his minds eye, he saw Reid in his stupid toff coat and suit, slipping in an out of the crowd as though he didn’t see them all as livestock.

That wasn’t fair.

As much as his feelings towards Reid could be described as ‘tense’ or ‘antagonistic’, he wasn’t delusional enough to believe the doctor was the kind of rabid, mindless monster he and his boys put a bullet in every other night. Not yet, anyway.

He was an altogether different creature, something with a very human intelligence behind his inhuman eyes, and a personality that extended beyond the usual ‘psychopath with a superiority complex’ that most leeches steered towards.

There was something to the way that he teased Geoffrey, how he shot back as good as he got when the hunter started mocking him, and the seemingly endless poise he carried with him no matter the situation.

He shook his head, scowling as he took another drag of his cigarette.

Fucking complicated leeches.

Vampires were supposed to be simple.

So simple in fact, that they only required one course of action.

If it was a leech, you killed it.

He wasn’t sure if he even knew what ‘simple’ meant any more.

“McCullum?”

He glanced over, the voice of the detective bringing him out of his increasingly maudlin thoughts.

Branagh looked like he had aged ten years, the lines of his face thrown into contrast by his grimace and the yellow glow of the lamps.

His hat threw his eyes into shadow, but Geoffrey could see how tired he looked.

“Detective.” He greeted back, blowing out a small cloud of smoke into the sky, watching as it dissipated and revealed the stars it had blotted out for a moment.

Branagh sighed.

“At least the air is fresher out here.” He grunted, pulling his coat further about himself.

Geoffrey nodded, watching the sky.

“Smelled like a fucking slaughterhouse.” He agreed. “You’d think it wouldn’t bother me anymore, but it still turns my stomach.”

Branagh regarded him with an odd look.

“I’m surprised you’re not used to this kind of thing.” He remarked, and Geoffrey couldn’t help but bark out a sharp, harsh laugh.

“I am, and I still fucking hate it. I hunt _monsters_ , detective.” He said flatly, turning his eyes on the other man. “Shit that would make you piss your fucking pants if you knew what was out there. I’ve seen vampires tear apart mothers to get to the baby inside,” he bit out, something hot igniting in his belly that made him feel tense and sick. “I’ve come across skals eating a man alive, tearing strips from him while he screamed. I’ve watched leeches turn a man and tie him up in the sun to burn to almost nothing until the sun went down and all he could do was wait until it started again.”

He fell quiet, taking a last, shaky drag from his cigarette as he calmed his racing heart.

“So yes, I’m used to it.” He bit out, voice low. “But it sure as fuck doesn’t get any easier.”

He flicked his cigarette to the gutter and crushed it with his boot, scowling. Branagh was silent, seemingly not knowing what to say.

“I’m going to talk to my boys.” He said suddenly, not liking the way the detective looked at him with those calculating, sympathetic eyes. “One of the patrols should have passed this way tonight, so I’ll see if they saw anything unusual.”

The detective nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on Geoffrey.

“I’ll speak to the family.” He murmured. “No wife, but his sister lives close.”

Geoffrey nodded, and with a grunt, let his feet start to carry him home.

Home.

He needed the reprieve.

“McCullum.”

He paused, wishing to just be gone already.

Branagh’s expression was hard and focused.

“I’ll go to Pembroke and get the word from Reid about the autopsy after I speak with the family.” He said, tone brooking no argument. “Meet me in four hours, at the bandstand.”

Geoffrey just nodded. A few hours would be more than enough time to talk to the boys who would have just finished the early night shift.

With a half-hearted wave of his hand, he headed into the night.

He needed to be away from the fake safety of the West End, the stifling feeling of having eyes on him at all times, the added restriction of having the play the social game as well as contend with the hunt.

As manicured streets and immaculate houses gave way to grubby cobbles and ratty curtains in sooty windows, he felt himself relax.

This was much more suited to his sensibilities.

As predicted, it didn’t take him long to reach the headquarters, billeted in as unobtrusive fashion as they could manage. The old theatre had been useful for a time and provided a good amount of space, but they couldn’t count on it to stay closed and ignored forever, especially when the epidemic began to die down and people poked their noses out of their houses again.

Instead, they had commandeered an old warehouse and accompanying row of shabby houses in a nondescript part of town, gutting them before repurposing them for their needs. The Guard needed less space now the epidemic was over, and the houses served as perfect barracks and offices, while the small warehouse at the rear was for storage and training. It worked well enough for now, and Geoffrey realised that he would miss this place when they inevitably had to move again.

As he entered the first house, the only one with a door that wasn’t false, he nodded to the guards watching the door, and felt himself relax for the first time in what felt like hours.

Priwen milled around as he headed for the mess, going about their business with calming surety.

A scout was discussing information with a curious looking lieutenant while a squad were heading out for the nightly patrol just as another came back, several of them with cuts and bruises.

He first headed for his own office, knowing he had the rotation schedule somewhere, and wanting to be in his own space for a while.

The case had shaken him, and he didn’t like the feeling.

With a sigh, he shrugged off his heavy coat and hung it up, knowing he would be picking it up again in a few hours. He rolled his shoulders and lit a cigarette, running his free hand through his hair as he tossed his cap onto the wobbly looking coat stand.

Warmth was chasing away the chill from the outside world, slowly bringing feeling back into his fingers. His nose was still ice cold and his toes still felt like blocks of ice, but it was nice to be somewhere that wasn’t frosted over.

Cigarette in his mouth, he sifted through the neatly stacked papers on his desk, quickly finding the patrol rotation for the week.

He was an orderly man by nature, which surprised some of his people.

He liked things how he liked them, and that was neat and tidy.

He was a practical man though and through, and having an organised workspace only made him able to work better.

Dreamers and idlers had messy workspaces, he decided as he flicked through the report.

Team eleven, led by Father Kilroy. Hm, they should be back in about half an hour, which still gave him plenty of time to get some food and a cup of something hot before he was due out again.

The food at the Priwen headquarters was hardly West End fare, but it was hearty and filling, if a little repetitive.

Their cooks were as dedicated to the cause as the rest of the Guard and were proud to help the way they did. Geoffrey made sure they knew how much they were valued too, lest they wake up one day to find rat poison in their breakfasts, or to no breakfast at all.

He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Team eleven ambled in right on time, and Geoffrey pushed away his empty place and drained the last of his tea before making his way over.

Father Kilroy looked up with surprise, but he smiled as Geoffrey approached.

The rest of his team looked tired but no worse for wear, and that didn’t bode well for unusual happenings.

“Evenin' Geoff,” the chaplain grinned, leaning on his crosier. He was a short man, heavyset and with a kind look to his eyes.

“Kilroy.” Geoffrey greeted, always pleased to see his men come back in one piece. “You’ve just come back from the West End, right?”

The chaplain nodded.

“Yes sir, we have. Heard about some ruckus over at one of the houses, but it was swarming with police when I sent a runner.”

Geoffrey nodded.

“Another murder." He admitted, “I was called in there to take a look, and I was wondering if you saw anything out of the ordinary? I’ve reason to believe the killer was a leech.”

Kilroy's brow creased, and he scratched at his stubble jaw.

“Nothin' I can think of,” he admitted, “I thought we saw something, but it turned out to just be a waif, picking through the rubbish bins.”

Frustrated, Geoffrey sighed.

“You sure it was a street rat?”

Kilroy nodded.

“Yeah, too small to be an adult and it ran like a kid when we shouted. If you could find them they might have seen something, but it was so dark I couldn’t even tell if it was a girl or a boy.”

Geoffrey rolled his shoulders and cursed.

“Well, shit.” He grumbled. “If I thought there was any chance of finding the kid, I’d go looking.”

One of the scouts, a fresh-faced young man with a scarf pulled down around his neck, spoke up.

“Maybe you could ask around, sir?” he advised. “Those kids don’t tend to stay by themselves if they can help it, so if you find their hideaway...”

“I might be able to get them to help me.” Geoffrey finished, nodding. “Good thinking, Tate.”

The scout shot him a little grin and tipped his hat.

“Bring some food along, sir.” Kilroy advised. “Those kids’ll be more likely to help you if you bring them something to eat.”

“Thanks lads,” Geoffrey said with a nod. “Get some grub in you and get warm.”

Kilroy saluted, a sloppy and cheerful thing, and led his team towards the mess hall.

Geoffrey sighed as he climbed the stairs to his living area and office.

The team hadn’t seen anything, but they had been able to point him in another direction that he wouldn’t have thought of.

Of course, he had no idea how to even begin looking for a gaggle of street children. Perhaps he would bring it up with Branagh.

Glancing at the clock and realising that he had an hour or so before he would need to set off, he settled at his desk to get some work done in the warm before having to brave the icy chill of outside.

His thoughts became consumed with the pleasant drudgery of the work in front of him, only the low crackle of the fire to keep him company.

* * *

The park in the West End had been creepy enough during the epidemic, but with the unnerving silence and the chill fog that now hung in the air, Geoffrey was feeling extremely ill at ease.

Cigarette dangling from his mouth and feeling the reassuring weight of his weaponry on his person, Geoffrey forged on through the mist, letting it curl harmlessly around his knees.

He didn’t feel nearly so tired after a good meal and some tea, the warmth of the fire still clinging to his bones even out in the chill of an English winter.

He came upon the bandstand, looking odd and out of place without people around it. It loomed up out of the fog like a castle, and he just about spotted a figure waiting for him inside.

With one hand on his crossbow and another poised to reach for his crucifix, he climbed the steps and spotted the dull tan of the detective’s coat.

“Branagh.” He greeted carefully and breathed a sigh of relief when the man turned around and nodded in acknowledgment.

The detective had a healthy flush to his skin, the tip of his nose bitten pink by cold. His sandy hair was shot with grey and half hidden beneath his hat, and he pulled his heavy coat tighter about himself.

“McCullum.” He muttered, expression grim.

Geoffrey took a drag of his cigarette, letting his body relax a little in the presence of an ally, even if he knew he shouldn’t get complacent in a place like this.

“I hope you found somethin’,” he grunted around the butt of the cigarette. “Cause all I got was whispers and shadows.”

Branagh nodded, expression unchanging.

“I interviewed the sister, and she was little help.” He began, reaching into his coat and withdrawing a small notebook. For a moment, Geoffrey had tensed again, but it ebbed as quickly as it had come.

“The second victim was something of a recluse.” Branagh explained. “No wife, little contact with his family, and considered to be rather odd.”

“Odd? How so?” Geoffrey questioned, curious. “Many things could get you labelled as ‘odd’, but only some of them warranted your murder.

“He kept strange hours, was awkward socially, and…” he trailed off, frowning. “Well, to quote his sister’s husband, he was generally thought of a ‘creepy’.”

Geoffrey felt his eyebrows rise.

“That sounds like a leech.” He muttered. “We sure he wasn’t one?”

Branagh shook his head. “Reid didn’t mention anything out of the ordinary after the autopsy. The cause of death for this one was the ah, the trauma.” He added, “He died of his wounds, not a heart attack like the previous victim.”

At the mention of the doctor, Geoffrey felt his mouth curl into a sneer, and something creep up his spine. What if the doctor really was involved, and he was just covering for the death of a fellow leech?

He dismissed the thought. If that had been the case, the doctor would have more than likely taken the liberty of killing them and escaping into the night, for which he had not hurt for opportunity.

Besides, Reid was the territorial sort.

Geoffrey wasn’t stupid enough to believe the vampire population had culled _itself_ , or that the leeches that had once preyed on the city’s inhabitants were now preaching peace and kindness. No, Reid wasn’t subtle in his tendency to tear apart any leech that made the loud kind of trouble in the city, leaving their drained and mauled bodies behind him as he went.

The rest were quick to fall in line and, if nothing else, Geoffrey could respect the _audacity._

Of course, there were some who either didn’t know whose territory they were intruding on, or simply didn’t care, but they were few and far between these days.

The smaller fry, the ones apparently beneath the doctors’ notice, those were the ones that Geoffrey and his men cleaned up.

It made him feel like the fucking maid, cleaning up discarded toys after a child had decided he was bored of them.

He scowled and took another drag of his cigarette.

“So?” he demanded, mood foul.

Branagh ignored his rudeness.

“The sister did mention a club that he was a part of.” He admitted, “The private kind. I cross checked that with the wife of the first victim and it turns out that he was _also_ a member.”

Geoffrey blinked, surprised.

“Well, shit.” He muttered. “So, the victims were linked by more than both being rich West End types. Okay.” He muttered, a hum of interest making his belly flutter. “That’s fucking _interesting.”_

Branagh nodded. He looked tired and drawn, but there was a manic kind of intensity in his eyes that was fuelled by progress.

“That’s not all.” He said, watching Geoffrey for a reaction. “The wife admitted that Wormsley was extremely interested in the occult. So interested in fact, that he consulted on the subject with a vampire hunter.”

Geoffrey frowned.

“A vampire hunter? I thought Priwen were the only people crazy enough to go _looking_ for monsters.” He muttered with a small grin, smoke curling around his fingers as his cigarette burned close to the end.

Branagh shook his head.

“Tell me, have you heard of a man named Ichabod Throgmorton?”

Geoffrey frowned, the name ringing a bell. He blinked when it came to him.

“The fraud?” he asked, wrinkling his nose. “That fucking moron would sooner stab himself with a stake than hit a leech, and he gets in the way of our investigations with his bumbling. He thinks he’s some sort of vampire slaying hero.” He scowled. “He’s never gone after a leech in his life.”

Branagh frowned, and he appeared to be processing this new information.

“According to Lady Wormsley, her husband last consulted with him on the occult only a few days before his death.” He said carefully.

Geoffrey sighed, and flicked the butt of his cigarette away.

“Well, it sounds like we’re going to pay Mr Throgmorton a visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's been another murder, and Geoffrey and Jonathan can't stop sniping at each other over dead bodies.


End file.
